by Amber Kay
“If you agree to my proposition, I’ll leave this car to you in my will,” she says after we’ve crossed back onto the highway. I almost don’t respond, but I can't ignore the funny feeling her comment leaves in my stomach.
“I don’t want to be listed in your will,” I say.
“As Adrian’s new wife, you’ll be entitled to all of my belongings after I'm dead. Any other girl would be ecstatic about that. In fact, all of the other girls I tried to recruit were most happy about that.”
Other girls? I remember her mention of other girls. It just didn’t process until now. She’s offered this deranged proposition before.
“So how many other girls have you tried to purchase?” I mutter with an edge of sarcasm in my tone.
She sighs, but doesn’t turn to face me. Her focus remains on the traffic.
“There were seven others,” she says. “None of them were suitable.”
“What makes you think I'm suitable?”
“Because you’re the only girl that didn’t light up when I mentioned putting you in my will,” she says.
I swallow the familiar lump in my throat and turn to glance out the window. A dark veil sheathes the sky. A gauzy sun bobs along the Californian horizon like a tiny yellow face leering at me, shaking its head in dismay.
“Don’t think about so much about me dying,” Vivian says. “You won’t have to feel guilty about taking my place. After I'm finished coaching you, you won’t remember I ever existed. You’ll be set for life.”
“How are you so optimistic about this?” I ask. “You should be spending your final days with your husband, not recruiting women to take your place. Adrian married you because he loves you. He doesn’t want a replacement wife. He wants you.”
“And soon he’ll want you,” she says. I sigh. There is no getting through to her. I assumed that if I pretended to go along with this plan, then she would eventually realize how stupid it is and change her mind. Surely, she can’t think that offering her husband a new wife will actually work out.
As we pull off the highway onto a private paved road with rectangular bushes straddling the outskirts, I lean forward and notice an onslaught of McMansions. It’s a massive suburban neighborhood with thousands of these gorgeous luxury houses with nice, fresh cut lawns and groundsmen tending the colorful gardens. I’ve only seen something like this on TV, but never had the privilege of visiting one.
My old neighborhood in Montana isn’t what one would call suburbia. It’s nice, just not this nice. I slide closer to the car window, gripping the door, pressing my face to the glass to see it all up close. Beautiful three-story Traditional style houses with antiquated shutters and paved driveways sail by. As they fade into the vantage point behind us, I catch a fleeting glimpse at them through the rearview.
Soccer moms pack children and golden retrievers into minivans. Men in business suits kiss their homemaker wives in the doorway before heading toward their expensive sports cars with briefcases tucked under their arms. It’s so perfect. Too perfect.
“Do you like the neighborhood?” Vivian asks me as we drive further into the plush suburban kingdom.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “You live here?”
“No, I live there.” She gestures at the largest house on the block, a massive sprawling estate sitting on its own plot of land with no neighboring houses. This four-story stone manor is like something out of an old 70’s soap opera with all of the appropriate bells and whistles to accompany it.
The stench of grass clippings permeate the car like a heady perfume. A landscaping crew scatters the grounds. A couple men bustle around atop riding mowers, shredding mounds of grass coating several acres of land.
They all seem in a hurry, tending to shrubs and raking dead leaves falling from the shedding magnolia trees dotting the lawn. These enormous wooden sentinels are obvious imports, since none grows naturally in California. A man donning a threadbare blue jumpsuit trims the hedges lining the outskirts of the paved, cobblestone drive, sculpting them each into precise symmetrical shapes.
The stone manor emerges much closer now, towering above the trees and pockets of brushwood clinging to its exterior walls. Cherry vines trail across the faded brick, window boxes overflow with bushels of red and gold florae.
Vivian drives closer to the house, stopping at the guard shack outside the wrought iron gate enclosing the estate. She lets her window down to greet the elderly guardsman standing outside. He looks to be about seventy with grey tufts of thinning hair sprawled atop his freckled head and a handlebar mustache masking his top lip.
This man isn’t fit to guard a damn thing. What is he to do if someone unauthorized wants in? I can’t imagine him brandishing a gun or pursuing a burglar. The poor man would collapse from cardiac arrest beforehand.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lynch,” he greets. Vivian smiles receptively—a polite gesture coming from a usually brusque woman.
“Hello Gerald. Is my husband home?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “No ma’am. He left three hours ago.”
“Then we won’t be disturbed,” she tells me as we drive in after Gerald allows us through the gate. The long, cobblestoned trail ahead, leads us into a teardrop driveway where she parks near the front door. I catch a whiff of fresh asphalt in the air, a pungent scent almost as notable as the mowed grass.
A man wearing a spotless white suit abruptly opens my car door, escorting me out as a second man in white ushers Vivian out.
My escort is middle-aged, a few feet taller than me with greying hair parted down the middle and molded to resemble some sort of a sleek comb over. He was obviously a secret serviceman in an alternate life. I look at him and imagine a Queen’s Guard. He looks at me and doesn’t even crack a smile.
“Take care of my baby, William,” Vivian orders the valet. With a nod, he slides onto the driver’s seat and drives the car elsewhere.
“You have a personal valet driver?” I whisper as the lanky man in white escorts us to the front door.
“He’ll soon be your valet,” she whispers back.
The massive front double doors of the manor have intricate carvings of angels etched into their faces. I detect a strong sense of symbolism in this. I can’t imagine this sort of imagery being coincidental. I reach for the bronze doorknob, but I quickly pull away when the lanky man in white glares at me.
“Asa doesn’t like anyone else doing his job,” Vivian tells me before Asa opens the door for us then steps aside to allow us inside. I remain in the foyer as Vivian strolls ahead of me. Several maids scatter out of her way, clearing a path for the storm called Vivian.
The women bustle around the house, dusting, moping or sweeping floors in every room I walk past. These worker bees flitter about in frenetic zigzags, in and out of random rooms. Each of them acknowledge Vivian with only a nod as if it’s protocol to remain neutral in her presence. No one greets me.
“Pay no mind to them,” Vivian tells me. “They should be finishing up for the day.”
The last maid scurries into a nearby room with the others. The door closes behind them, but I notice their shadows beneath it. I imagine them with their ears pressed to wall, their eyes peeking through the keyhole. And I wonder. Is it normal for Vivian to invite all of her “recruits” to the house for further evaluation?
I don’t take two steps without stopping to admire something about the Lynch manor. The interior reminds me of a modern castle with its large windows and heavy curtains, soaring ceilings and elegant molding.
The painted white walls are spotless like someone arrives every weekend to repaint them. The marble grey floors resemble ice, making me feel like I may shatter them if I walk too fast. The soaring steeple ceilings make me feel small like I'm standing in a cathedral.
“Vivian, your house is gorgeous.” My voice echoes in the hollow space. Vivian doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t have to. I'm sure she has heard these words from many others several times before. She doesn’t need my opinion.
I trail her into the living room and glance at the grandiose chandelier suspended like a pendulum from the peak of the ceiling. Nude sculptures stand tall in each corner of the room.
A Camelback sofa sits in the middle of the space. Quaint end tables flank each side with a coffee table in front. In the far left corner of the room, a massive bookcase is crammed with hardcovers in mint condition.
I poke my head further in, noticing an arch doorway sectioning off a larger compartment of the room. Vivian doesn’t stop me from wandering so I saunter into this adjoining space and find a baby grand piano sitting in front of a large bay window overlooking the neighborhood.
“Come with me into the parlor,” says Vivian. I follow her through the spacious kitchen, past stained glass patio doors that overlook a swimming pool and a massive backyard covered in a gardenia garden. I stop momentarily to see them, gripping the patio door, but resisting the urge to open it.
“You like gardenias?” Vivian asks me.
“I love them,” I say. “When I was little, my mom let me have a little flower garden of my own in the flowerbox my dad installed right outside my bedroom window. She told me I could choose one bag of flower seeds to nurture. I remember being so excited to go to the hardware store. I spent hours in that place trying to decide between dahlias and gardenias.”
“Not roses? Or daisies?”
I shake my head.
“Those were way too cliché for me,” I say. “Everything I did as a kid came from an irrational fear of conformity. That is probably why I never had many friends. I was too busy trying not to fit in.”
Vivian smiles—a smirk of momentary irony.
“I know better than anyone how boring traditionalism can be,” she says. “Do you think I’d be divorced four times from the same man if I were interested in being conventional? I gave up on being a ‘good’ Catholic girl years ago.”
“You and Catholicism?” I chuckle. “You don’t strike as the religious type.”
“You’re not?” she asks.
I shrug, feeling nothing at all for the subject matter. Religion has never been a hot topic in my family. Mom and Dad never preached one specific principle nor had they ever insisted that I choose any faith in particular. I’ve never even given it much thought until now.
“I guess everyone needs something to believe in,” I say. “My parents were never really stern on that matter. We prayed over meals and celebrated Christmas, but we never attended church. Religious holidays usually felt more like obligational traditions. We never celebrated them out of respect for the origin story. It just felt like the normal thing to do. To me, as a kid, Easter was more about chocolate eggs and candy.”
“I imagine you were quite precocious as a child,” she says. I cringe at those memories, ashamed at my seven-year old self for arguing with Mom about where babies come from and insisting that no stork was involved.
I had turned thirteen and decided I wanted to be “mature.” The other girls in my grade obsessed over makeup and kissing techniques. I wasn't among the minions. I preferred to eat my peanut butter and banana sandwich outside, under the rotting sycamore.
“I had my moments,” I reply with a chuckle. Vivian contemplates my response. Her eyes trail away as if someone nearby has called her name. Gradually, they turn back, returning their focus to me.
“You’ll make every decision about the garden once I'm dead,” she announces abruptly. “Adrian never goes out there so it became my little sanctuary. Gardening was therapeutic after I received my prognosis.”
“You tend to the garden yourself?”
“I used to before I got too sick,” she says. “It was my one real passion. Flowers and antiques.” She smiles at these words as if they bring back sweet memories she is ashamed to have forgotten.
“I noticed the Victorian style furniture,” I say. “You must be a fan of that era.”
“It’s an obsession, I suppose,” she says. “When Adrian bought this house, he left all of the interior decisions to me. I made this place my little project. It was a toy to distract me from the long nights without him anytime he was away on business. It was fun for a while…until it became lonely.”
She saunters toward the parlor. I follow until she slides open a pair of baroque screen doors and escorts me into a modest sized room scarcely furnished with a table and mahogany chairs, a couple of potted plants and several pieces of abstract art.
To my left is a procession of ceiling-to-floor windows that overlook the east side of the garden. Vivian pulls a cord on the wall that draws back the transparent satin curtains so that the garden is on full display.
“Sit with me,” she says after plopping into one of the mahogany chairs. I'm careful when I sit, fearing I’ll break something. Vivian sits in silence staring at me with her fingers entwined atop the table.
I gaze at the lace tablecloth, taking note of its floral design. I glance up and find her eyes lingering on me. To cure the tension, I smile, but she frowns as if she’s remembered something she wishes she hadn’t.
“You won’t have to change much,” she says. “Adrian will prefer your hair long, but you may have to start wearing more makeup.”
“What?”
“Let me get a good look at you. Stand up.”
Reluctantly, I stand, feeling like cattle on a stage for auction.
“Don’t slouch,” she says. “It’s a sign of insecurity. You don’t strike me as the timid type.”
“I'm not…usually,” I say. “But how am I supposed to act?”
“You are to act like you own the room,” she replies in a stern voice. “Never expose even an inkling of insecurity. As Adrian Lynch’s wife, all eyes will be on you. He may be the main attraction, but you will always be the center of attention. It’s your job to be the sweetest eye candy. Know when to laugh. Know how to talk.”
I drown in the severity of her speech, noting the intensity in her eyes as she speaks. She really believes the drivel coming out of her mouth as if god himself proclaimed it—the deleted eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not be weak!
“Turn a full circle for me,” she says. “I’d like to see how much work more will be needed before presenting you to Adrian.”
“I’m not comfortable with you making me over and wrapping me like a gift for your husband,” I say.
“It won't be a makeover, it’d be a minor tweak,” she says. “You are a very pretty girl, but even pretty can be improved. Like I said, your hair can stay long. We’ll need to test you with a few shades of lipstick, a touch of blush and maybe some mascara. Your freckles are endearing. Adrian will think they’re cute.”
I blush at the thought, embarrassed, but also flattered and I'm not sure why.
“I haven’t agreed to any of this,” I say, determined to remain neutral. “I'm not even sure if I should take your money.”
“Name one good reason to refuse free money,” she says. “I can think of none.”
“One good reason?” I repeat. “Well, my mother always warned me not to take candy from strangers.”
“Have I not convinced you yet?” she asks. “Cassandra, what more do you need to hear? Once I'm dead, you’ll be an instant heiress. Isn’t that enough? You’ll inherit this house, my cars, my clothes, my shoes, my money—”
“And your husband,” I interject. “I’ll inherit your husband too.”
“Ah, so that’s the problem,” she says as if she has just now come to see things from my perspective.
“I know that this sounds like a good idea to you, but there are so many things wrong with this plan,” I say.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asks. “I'm a woman in love with her husband. I don’t want him alone after I'm dead. You shouldn’t have any complaints. You’ll be rich and well cared for afterwards. I’m making you my sole beneficiary. You’ll have a life any other girl in the world would kill for. Why are you fighting this?”
“I don’t appreciate being sold to a man I don’t know,” I say, plain
and simple, in a no-bullshit tone.
“Then you’re wasting precious time arguing with me.”
“What?”
“I have only a year left, Cassandra. You and Adrian could be spending time together, getting to know one another. Meanwhile, I’ll be mentoring you, teaching you how to be the perfect trophy wife.”
I shake my head and fold my arms. She is firm in her decision and determined to make me a martyr for her marriage. I refuse to be the sacrificial lamb. I won’t let her guilt or bully me into an arranged marriage.
“Will you at least meet him?” she asks. “Just talk to him. Decide then whether or not you want to go any further.”
“There is nothing to decide,” I say. “I’m nineteen years old. Adrian is undoubtedly a man well over forty. What could he and I have in common?”
Vivian chuckles at my remark then glances at her entwined hands to allow herself a moment of introspection.
“Age isn’t the problem here,” she replies after a minute of resolve. “I think that you’re just afraid.”
“This isn’t the eighteenth century, Vivian,” I say. “You can’t just auction women off to your husband like cattle. If Adrian wants to remarry after you’re dead, that’s his decision, not yours.”
She cracks a deviant smile, acting as if something new has occurred to her, something she wasn’t aware of until now.
“You’re afraid you might begin to love him,” she says. “That’s perfectly understandable. Your family may not approve of you marrying at nineteen years old. You might even alienate your friends. It’s true that your entire life will change if you agree to this. I don’t blame you for being hesitant.”
I don’t reply. I also can't deny that some part of me agrees with her analysis. Maybe I am afraid of meeting Adrian. If this works the way Vivian hopes it will, my mother would throw a tantrum. Sasha would probably disown me as a friend. I'm not sure I’d even be able to look my father in the eye.
